


The Central Park Affair

by selyndae



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-23 20:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/pseuds/selyndae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a courier job takes place on Halloween, anything can happen!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Central Park Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkkitty/gifts).



> Hope this fills your request of funny and scary. A blast to do!  
> There's a marvelous picture over on livejournal mfu-scrapbook in jkkitty's request which was used for the prompt.

Their last mission had been difficult and as a result, Illya Kuryakin had been on mandatory light duty all week. Most of the time had been spent in the lab, but today he’d been on surveillance—a welcome change, especially since the assignment had taken him out of doors. His objective was Jonathon Martin, a tall, quiet but extremely eccentric physicist, was being pandered by Thrush. At the moment, though, he’d gone outside and was sitting on a bench, feeding the pigeons. 

Since he would be on duty until 8:00 p.m., he welcomed the chance to grab a quick bite to eat from a nearby vendor. Choosing a bench several yards, away, he sat down to wait. At least the overly cautious doctors had finally signed off on his medical restrictions.

The day was perfect. The crisp coolness was fresh, scented with white pine and the bright maples, birches, and the coppery-red chrysanthemums associated with the season were in colorful abundance. 

_BEEP …BEEP …BEEP_

“Kuryakin.”

_“Murphy is on his way to relieve you.”_

“Napoleon, what’s going on?”

_“We need you to play courier. You’re the only one with the necessary security clearance who’s close enough.”_

“Where am I going?”

_“There’s a little shop over at 123rd near Convent—St. Clair’s. There’s a package is being held for your uncle.”_

“That’s on the other side of town. I don’t believe I’m familiar with—”

_“The entrance is in the alley. Just ask for Mr. Davis. The thing is, St. Clair’s closes at 6:00.”_

Illya glanced at his watch. “That’s cutting it pretty close.”

 _“Can’t help it—we just got word. Look, after you pick it up, take it to the Kresge five and dime over on 5th south of 84th. Jason will take it from there.”_ A speaker could be heard in the background. _“I’ll meet up with you as soon as I can get away.”_

Illya slipped his communicator back in his pocket just as Murphy arrived. He’d have to hurry to reach this St. Clair’s before they closed. Too far to get there on foot, he hurried out of the park to summon a cab.

Ten breathless minutes later, he arrived at the intersection of 123rd and Convent and looked around. The area seemed mostly deserted and the few stores not boarded up were had bars across the doors and windows. Spotting the alley, Illya paused, all senses tensely alight.

Sensing nothing amiss (aside from the entire setup) he stepped into the alley prepared for a possible ambush. When nothing happened, he went in a bit further finally spotting a hand-lettered sign for St. Claire’s Emporium in a dusty, multi-paned window. The door had the same divided lights, but they were clean at least. 

_However did UNCLE even find this place?_

Cautiously trying the doorknob, he found it opened easily on well-oiled hinges. A tiny bell tinkled as he stepped inside. At first all he could see were piles of items from the floor up all around the narrow aisles. The purpose of the shop was unclear containing as it did, an eclectic assortment of everything from cheap plastic combs to ragged odds and ends to a couple of really nice antique pieces.

Shaking his head, he moved to the counter at the back where a dark-hued woman wearing a kerchief over her hair was polishing silver.

She glanced up at his approach. “May I help you find something?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Davis.”

She gave him a sharp, appraising look before laying down her polishing cloth. “I’ll get him.”

A broad-faced, slightly stooped old man with grizzled mutton-chop sideburns came out from the back. He glanced at an old-fashioned pocket watch pulled out from his brocade vest and smiled politely at the agent.

“You asked for me?”

His voice was very deep with a surprising Bronx accent.

“Yes, I’m to pick up a package for my uncle. He was unable to come and sent me in his place.”

Mr. Davis’s smile grew wider, gleaming rows of very white teeth brilliant against his dark complexion. “Ah yes, I have it right here.” He patted his pocket and slowly pulled out a large key. Bending down, he opened something under the counter, bringing out a small square box tied with twine. He held it out, but paused before giving it to his customer. “It’s been wrapped carefully, but you’ll need to be careful with it. It’s rather delicate.”

Illya nodded. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

Darkness had fallen and it was raining making the alley was dark as pitch. At the sidewalk one lone street light feebly strained against the darkness. 

Five long blocks later, he finally was able to flag down a cab, Illya settled back for the ride back toward Central Park but after nearly twenty minutes of stop and go it was obvious traveling on foot would be faster. Near 88th traffic was hopelessly snarled with nobody moving.

“I’ll get out here,” instructed Illya handing over the fare as he opened the door.

Keeping the small package tucked inside of his overcoat, he pulled us his collar as he headed south toward the small five and dime store. He was just reaching it when a familiar-looking car slipped into a convenient space which just opened up near the front of the store. Glancing over, he could see his partner at the wheel.

Giving a short wave, he headed for the store when two small motor sharply scooters revved their engines and started down the sidewalk straight for Kuryakin!

Leaping toward a handy doorway, he narrowly avoided getting clipped by the crazed rider. Muffled shots were fired from a silencer-equipped gun! 

Napoleon flung open the passenger door was opened and ducking, Illya scrambled inside. Hastily setting the package on the floor, he drew his own Special and fired off a few shots. One managed to hit a rear tire sending the rider and machine skidding down the slippery sidewalk and crashing into a marble facade.

“Hang on!”

The powerful car sped away from the curb and zipped across the busy street cutting off several irate drivers. Speeding into the Park, they drove frantically, bouncing over bridle paths around the Reservoir. They just reached the southwest side when they lost traction completely. Spinning the tires had no effect other than to drive the vehicle deeper into the mud. Suddenly the back window shattered as gunfire from the enemy found their target!

Napoleon thumbed open his communicator and tried to reach headquarters. All he got was a loud squeal.

“Must have some kind of portable jamming device,” observed Illya as he fired off another shot.

“We can’t hold them off here for long. Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“If we can make it up toward the Conservatory Garden, there should be enough cover. I think.”

The sound of the motor scooter was getting closer. It sounded like a couple of others had joined in.

The agents cautiously opened their doors and peered beneath. It looked clear for the moment so they both crept out. At the last moment, Illya snatched up the package from the floor and started to jam it into a pocket when he fumbled and the small box bounced once on the front seat before rolling off on to the ground.

It began to hum quietly.

A shot struck the tree just behind them sending the agents back into action. Illya grabbed the box which still hummed. There was a small vibration as well.

On impulse, Napoleon reached back and snatched out the small plastic AAA litter bag hung on the radio knob. Handing it over he whispered, “Put the box in here.”

“What will that do?”

“Who cares—do you _want_ that in your pocket?”

“Point taken.”

They ran.

Occasional shots were still being fired, and they sounded closer. Thrush was gaining on them!

Finally, a tall dark building loomed ahead. 

The agents paused by the shrubbery. Napoleon patted his pockets. “I just have two shots left and one more clip. You?”

Illya shook his head. “I put in my last clip back at the car, so maybe…three more shots.”

“We’ll have to hold them off inside.” Napoleon was grim. “Let’s go.”

The door was unlocked, but once inside, there was none of the hoped-for cover. The large room was empty save for an ornate fountain in the middle of the room, some benches, and a staircase. They ran toward the stairs. Down looked like a shallow basement while up...

“You do realize—that we’re running _up_?”

Although both men were in good shape, several flights of steep, narrow stairs on top of a fast ‘broken field’ sprint through the large formal garden was taking its toll.

Napoleon didn't respond as he kept leading the charge up the stairs (whether trying to catch his breath or coming up with a good answer, Illya wasn't sure).

Finally, reaching the top landing, they stopped, listening for sounds of pursuit. Not hearing anything they examined the door. Decidedly medieval in style and size, it was enormous. And locked! 

Napoleon swiftly gestured for his partner to apply some explosive to the keyhole as he shot his cuffs revealing his watch (Illya’s was gone, having been confiscated by Thrush on the mission, and he hadn’t replaced it yet). With a wry grin, Illya patted the explosive tenderly into place and stood back while his partner swiftly ignited it.

The lock sizzled and sparked until the rope of explosive had been spent. 

The door wouldn't open. 

Wrapping his sleeve around the hot doorknob, Illya tested it. It was definitely unlocked. 

Shoulders firmly to the door, it still took two really hard tries until, with a bloodcurdling screech, it opened wide. But…into what?

Instead of seeing an open rooftop or storeroom, what they saw was an ancient cemetery. A large, arched structure rose arrogantly in the center, just visible through the curling fog. The whole scene was back-lit by a barely detectable moon.

“Do you thee what I thee?” asked Napoleon in a bare whisper, keeping enough presence of mind to minimize his sibilants.

“I, uh… Right. Do we go in or what?” Illya's whisper was non-judgmental.

Napoleon shook his head and started to pull back the door when they could hear footsteps echoing below—on the level just below. With a shrug, he made a face. “In.”

Once inside, the agents saw a stack of logs and large rocks nearby. Shutting the door tightly, they began to push the logs against the door. Once done, they moved on either side of the door to see if the enemy was going to get through.

**_Cra-a-a-ack!!_ **

The agents spun around at the slow cracking of wood snapping from behind! 

A very large tree was falling toward them. Instantly they darted away from the door and away from the falling tree. 

**_Boooommmmm!_ **

With a resounding thud, the tree crashed to the ground, smaller branches and leaves scattering all around.

“That was close.” Napoleon began brushing stray leaves and twigs from his suit. 

Illya swiftly ran a hand through his hair pulling out stray bits when he froze and turned back around to stare intently at something.

“What are you—?”

Napoleon broke off as he realized that his partner was staring at the door—or rather, the place where the door had been.

There was nothing there except the cemetery!

Neither agent was prone to panic but the total _weirdness_ of the situation was… _disturbing_ , to say the least. And now, other than the falling tree, the place was utterly silent. Not a leaf rustled. No insect noises. Nothing except a deep silence.

The faint gleam of the moon which had filtered through the thick fog was gone, leaving nothing but darkness.

Napoleon shut his eyes tightly for a moment and opened them hoping to see something—anything. As his eyes strained in the darkness, darker shadows became recognizable as headstones—some ornate, but all very old. Dank, moldy leaf odors permeated the air. To his left loomed the arched structure.

Suddenly a frisson of danger slithered down his back as ice-cold fingers of terror feathered past his neck. 

**_Arrrrrrrrroooooooooowwwwwwwwww_ **

_That horrible sound! What was it?_

He glanced over to his partner for silent reassurance in this disturbing place.

Illya was gone!

\---

_Where was Napoleon?_

They were together after the tree fell, but somehow in this silent place, his partner had somehow disappeared.

The thick silence made him reluctant to call out.

_He can’t have gone too far._

Illya glided through the graveyard. The gently sloped hillside and gnarled, century-old trees no doubt lent themselves to the cemetery’s old-fashioned charm, but in the nighttime, the pale moon threw weirdly elongated shadows making it impossible to move quickly. The cooling night air settling against the still-warm earth sent up wispy tendrils of fog.

He paused. About 100 feet to his right was the tall, arched structure. Glancing at the faint luminous dial on his watch, he confirmed he had been separated from his partner only three minutes. Another look around the area showed nothing unusual.

_Unless you take into account the fact that I’m in a deserted graveyard which is apparently located on the top floor of the Conservatory Gardens in Central Park._

Illya sighed as he glanced down at the faintly-vibrating package he’d tied to his belt. Something about it made him strangely uneasy. It was very tempting to open the thing and see what it was…

With a slow, resigned shake of his head, he gripped his Special more closely and headed toward the arch as a good starting point. Napoleon couldn't have gone that far—the building wasn't _that_ big…

**_Arrrrrrrrroooooooooowwwwwwwwww_ **

The Russian instantly spun around on his heels at the unnerving sound at his back! _Nothing!_

The fog was suddenly much thicker and it was cold. Somehow, the moon had disappeared making the darkness even more oppressive. And…now the swirling clouds seemed to form shapes rather like…people?

_Ridiculous!_

But they persisted. Suddenly he found himself unable to move, practically rooted to the ground, as the shapes moved closer…and closer!

\---

Napoleon finally managed to reach the arch. Still reluctant to disturb the thick silence—especially with whatever that thing was—he waited. The fog, if anything was even thicker. 

_Odd…the longer I stare, the more like…people it—_

Suddenly he found himself staring at an old man with thick grizzled sideburns stark against his broad face and dark complexion. Startled, he slipped and fell, hitting his head against a headstone. Rolling, he used the arch for support and tried to get up.

Instead, he fell back, unconscious…

\---

**_Arrrrrrrrroooooooooowwwwwwwwww_ **

That sound! But…there was nothing else, No crunch of leaves or stone. No rustle of branches. And the fog…

_Wait! That looks like—_

Staring at the dark face with grizzled sideburns Illya tried to make sense of it all as he fell unconscious.

A sudden flash of lightening swept across the sky illuminating the cemetery in stark relief. Another flash followed by the long, echoing rumble of thunder as rain began to fall in earnest.

\---

_BEEP …BEEP …BEEP_

Dazed, Illya reached for his communicator and automatically thumbed it open, realizing with a start that the ‘jamming device’ was gone.

“Kuryakin.”

_“Mr. Kuryakin, report.”_

“Um…” Illya struggled to remember what it was he was supposed to be reporting when his hand brushed the bag attached to his belt, “I’m sorry, Sir, about not making that drop…”

_“What the deuce are you talking about? Report on Mr. Martin; when did he make contact?”_

Completely confused Illya could only stare at his pen, “I…Sir I—” The bag suddenly grew very warm. Reaching for it, a sudden wave of dizziness overwhelmed the agent. He fell back into the very hard leaves, the box falling out and rolling away.

_“Mr. Kuryakin? Mr. Kuryakin!”_

\---

A hand touched his shoulder and Illya lashed out blindly.

Strong, familiar hands grabbed him. “Illya, it's me.”

“Wha—?” Illya’s eyes flew open. “Napoleon!” He struggled to raise himself to a sitting position.

“Whoa,” Napoleon grinned as he gently restrained his partner and cranked up the bed, “There, how’s that?”

“Fine. What happened?”

Napoleon’s smile faded. “Um, actually, we were rather hoping you could tell us…”

Illya stared. “You were there… Weren't you?”

Napoleon looked sheepish. “The last thing I actually _remember_ was picking you up on 5th and crashing into Central Park. After that things are pretty hazy. Almost…like a really weird dream.”

Looking steadily at his partner, Illya replied evenly, “That’s exactly what I remember as well.”

\---

_Two days later…_

Illya strode into their office carrying a folder which he promptly put on Napoleon’s desk on top of what he was reading.

Napoleon raised his eyebrows in question.

“It’s a history of Central Park. You may be interested in the section about the Conservatory Garden area.”

“Oh?” The CEA flipped open the folder and saw an old black and white picture of the reservoir. It looked pretty bare without the landscaping, but there were people dressed in fashionable clothing from the last century, sitting on blankets as they picnicked. 

He flipped through the others, most of which looked to be pictures of the reservoir’s construction. Still puzzled, he came to the final photograph. This one showed hut-like buildings sprinkled among a few more elaborate homes. There were a few people in the shots. They were dressed in plain clothing. Puzzled, he studied the people and realized they were dark-skinned with Negroid features, staring unsmiling at the camera.

“Here.” Illya pointed to the background as he handed over a magnifying glass.

Napoleon looked at the area and was stunned to see that off to the left, in the background, was a cemetery… _just like the one they’d encountered!_

Almost fumbling, he moved the glass to take a closer look at the man dressed in some kind of minister’s frockcoat and his jaw dropped. _It looked just like the face in the fog…_

“Seneca Village.”

“Huh?”

Illya’s quietly explained. “Seneca Village was a small community of roughly 200-plus people, primarily Negroes who owned and farmed the land. When Central Park was built, these people were forced out.” He paused, “Including a spiritual leader, Mr. E. Davis.”

“Where?”

“This was all UNCLE research could ascertain.” He shrugged. “I suppose some kind of archaeologist would have to determine more.”

“So, what we saw…?”

Illya’s tone was carefully neutral. “The ‘package’ contained a device which allegedly tapped into events and emotions from the past. Of course, there’s no evidence and no way to test further since the device was destroyed.”

“I, ah, see.”

Illya retrieved the folder and started toward the door. Just before reaching it, he stopped and stated somewhat reluctantly, “There’s another piece of information loosely connected with this Affair. As it happens, St. Clair’s Emporium does not have a business license, nor is there any kind of company located at 123rd near Convent. And, according to City Records, the alley that ran behind there has been gone since 1911.”

“So…we must have been under some kind of hallucination from the Thrush gas.”

Illya turned around and locked eyes with his partner. “Absolutely.”

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Seneca Village was a real place according to New York Central Park history, however, my take on this, is entirely my invention!


End file.
